Watcher Watched
by K. Shrike
Summary: Can a bard's careful study of human nature match a ranger's keen observation of his quarry? Bishop/KC, OC.
1. The Hat

Obsidian owns all the NWN2 characters here portrayed, including Bishop, whom many of us would love to own instead; Livetta belongs to a friend who has granted me gracious permission to use (and abuse) her.

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**Chapter 1: The Hat**

He watched. Specifically, he watched with the studious disinterest of one who frequently watches others, the surreptitious noticing of one whose life depended on watching unnoticed. And really, the only things different about this group coming through the Flagon's door were the disparate nature of its members and... the woman in the hat. It had a wide brim and a feather, and either all of the woman's hair was tucked up under it, or she was bald. No, the hat sat wrong for bald. And there, under its dapper angle, he could see the taut upward slope at the nape of her neck. He couldn't tell what color exactly it was for the shadow, though he could tell, at least, that it was dark hair.

It wasn't the hat that marked her off, though, Bishop noted. No, it was the fact that she watched, too. He caught it in his peripheral vision, the way her gaze took in the room, the way her line of sight would flick to something innocuous but just in view of a patron (oh, he knew that trick-- take it all in with the periphery, never let them know you're watching _them_), and the fact that she was only paying half attention to those who had walked in with her, inclining her head this way and that, the same way he'd sometimes do to catch snatches of conversation from across a room.

The elf next to her was on edge, muttering quietly about a roof and walls and the city itself. A bundle of tension, that one, her movements jerky and ill at ease. It was hard to pick out more than that. The dwarf and the tiefling were bickering... some rot about short beard hairs. Their manner was more jovial, but there was an edge to each voice. They might have been playing, but they meant every traded insult, like wolf pups play fighting to establish rank. The woman in the hat, however, interjected in their conversation at just about the right moment to get off a one-liner, and then her attention was back to the room at large.

She must be feeling out the patterns of their talking by their inflections, he thought. Not bad. He relaxed back into his ale once he'd determined she wasn't an immediate threat, and turned just so, so that he could best hear the exchange with Duncan that he knew would follow. After all, it appeared that this was tonight's entertainment.

"I'm looking for Duncan Farlong." Polished voice, hatted one.

"Uh, Duncan, you say? That depends, I mean--if you're looking to be collecting on a debt, I have to tell you, he's a drunk, with nary a copper to his name!"

By way of reply, the woman took off her hat. Duncan immediately stopped his evasions and began, "Livetta! Lass! You should've-- If I'd known it was you-- I haven't seen you since you were but a babe!"

Bishop choked momentarily on his ale. The woman's hair was _green_. Surprise, surprise. No wonder she kept it under her hat. All the room's attention seemed to be focused on her, though, so he was reasonably sure no one saw his lapse in composure. She had a slight frame, and a pronounced bump at the bridge of her nose. High cheek bones, sharp angular jaw, moderately thin lips, heavy brows that broadcast her expression extremely well. Her face was completely unfamiliar, so he doubted he'd encountered her anywhere else-- but now he committed her gait and posture to memory, so he might pick her out in a crowd. He watched her glance about, and replace her hat. So she doesn't want that hair of hers recognized, eh? A useful thing to keep in mind.

Bishop had to strain to hear the next bit. "Uncle Duncan, I need to know about--"

"Esmerelle?"

"Who's Esmerelle?"

Silence dropped for a moment. Bishop shot a glance over to the conversation, and noted Duncan's look. The half-elf's eyebrows had shot up, and his mouth was working, though no sentences were forthcoming.

"He never...?" Bishop's ears strained, but the rest of the question was lost. The conversation continued in much lower tones, and looking sideways from the corner of his eye, he noted the that The Hat's entourage had drifted about the room as her chat with her so-called "uncle" continued. Their bodies leaned in close to one another as they discussed, and the tones ranged from confusion, shock, doubt and curiosity. Bishop picked out a few words, "Sand" and "shard" for certain, possibly "battle," "magic," and "viper."

Apparently, Sand had better ears than he did. "Just in time to deflect the usual barrage on my character, I see." Duncan jumped. But the green-haired woman didn't seem to be taken off guard as the moon elf entered the bar.

Duncan sighed. "Livetta, this is Sand. He owns a magic shop here in the Docks District. He's the one we took the shards to originally."

_Shards plural, then? Interesting..._

Sand was as droll as ever-- not that he could hear it. At the woman's sign, they lowered their voices, but he could see Duncan bristle from across the room. Small blessings. But the secretive air to all of this was intriguing, as was the fact that this woman seemed to be aware of his watching. That would not do. Those who watch needed to _be_ watched. They were, after all, the most dangerous sort. He'd have to keep an eye on this "niece" of Duncan's.

It turned out she was a bard. He'd been out in the common room enough in the evening to hear her play odd little tunes on her recorder on more than one occasion. _Careful, careful, little watcher. All those patrons? They're watching _you_. And that stuff you use as hair dye? Leaves brown spots all over your clothing when it bleeds. Yes, be careful, don't come down here with your fresh dyed hair, little watcher._

He could see she wasn't unaware of her mistakes, either, because after that first time, the dye job was perfect. Always a fresh tunic when she was out in the common room, and her hair bound up in a knot and pinned in place to keep it off her shoulders. _Just in case_, he thought. _Smart. But not smart enough. I caught you that first time. I saw._

Bishop's relaxed air of those first few nights faded as he observed her over the course of the next couple of days. He noted there was soot on her clothing the day the Watch building in the docks had burned, and how carefully she observed any members of the Watch who came into the Flagon for a drink. She was running with Moire's gang, from the look of it. And the little watcher was _definitely_ watching him_._ Now _that_ had a certain amount of threat to it. Her attention was like a lance. She rarely looked at him directly, but he could tell where her focus was by the tilt of her head, and the tiny responses to her environment. See, he reasoned, if she'd been focused on Sal at the bar, she'd have reacted, however subtly, to the sound of the tankards being washed and stacked. But she didn't. No, she was focused on _him_. His movements were what made her eyes flick away, and he caught her--in his periphery--chance a direct look at him when he raised his mug. Clever. He'd used that trick himself more than once. Usually on quarry who were too blind or oblivious or just plain _drunk _to realize they were being tracked. Clearly, she underestimated him. Better for him. _You just go on feigning rapt attention to your little flute_, he jeered inwardly.

She did not go on feigning rapt attention. It was fairly late at night, and most of the Flagon's patrons had left. She leaned over from her stool, tucked her recorder into a rigid sleeve which she set on a table, and then stood, stretching. He took the opportunity for a full look at his little watcher in turn. Sinewy. Compact. Precise. Controlled. Abrupt! Her stretch ceased mid-motion, and her gaze caught his. Dammit! Had he underestimated _her_?

She wandered over to him, and like a fool, like a bird trapped by the sight of its own reflection in a mirror, he locked his eyes on hers. Brown eyes. And they studied him carefully.

"So," she began.

But he wasn't going to let her. "If I wanted a wench, I'd go to the local brothel," his lip curled, flicking his gaze up and down her form to drive the point home. Then he added as an afterthought, "And she'd be better looking even if she were a half-orc I fished out of a heap of night soil."

"I don't know about you, but I wouldn't go around screwing things I fished out of dung piles." She sat down across from him at his table. "You were watching me."

"And? You've been watching me. I'd be careful about where I rested my eyes. It's a great way to lose them."

"And here I thought you just liked to hear me play," her tone was teasing. He couldn't read her expression-- a subtle shade of blank.

Well, two made a game. "If you were here to play, you wouldn't be striking up conversations with men who obviously want to be left alone."

"Fair enough."

"Well?" he prompted, when it was obvious she wasn't going to leave.

"Wells are for water. But honestly, I'd like to know why you've been keeping such a close eye on me."

"I don't think you're entitled to know that, little girl."

"Last time someone called me a 'little girl' I broke his nose."

"Looks like he returned the favor," Bishop snickered.

She merely grinned. "I suppose we could keep watching one another from a distance. But I'd rather not. Someone might get the wrong idea and think we're lovers."

"You know as well as I do that no one else is paying attention."

"It's a shame, too. If people _paid_ attention, I'd be rich, and could retire to a grand estate out in the country. So, you were watching and listening since I walked into this place. And like you said, no one _else_ paid attention. That marks you different. Different attracts trouble."

"Look who's talking, greenie."

"Never said I didn't like my share of trouble. Call me Livetta."

"I never bother to learn the names of the harlots around here, sorry."

"They probably don't know yours either, Bishop-- they tend only to learn the names of _paying_ customers."

"I see someone's been asking questions," he kept his tone level.

"It's a magical ability I have-- to put a question mark at the end of a statement. Leads to all sorts of information."

"Some of that information can be dangerous."

"Like you, I suppose?" she smiled. And then the play went out of her face. "You want my honest assessment, and not more word games, then?"

Bishop arched a brow incredulously.

"I don't doubt you're dangerous. And you're obviously someone who knows how to observe. That puts you a cut above others right there, and that set me on edge at first. People usually aren't that aware."

There was an expectant pause.

"So now you want me to go ahead and tell you all the answers to your little questions, just because you decided to tip your hand and shower me with a few compliments?" a smirk tugged at the corners of Bishop's mouth.

"Oh no. You already _have_ answered most of my real questions, and right off the line, too. I just thought I'd return the favor. But I enjoy your wit. I hope we'll get to dance again soon, sometime." She _bowed. Cocky bitch!_ But Bishop couldn't think of a return volley to keep her there. He simply watched her retreating form lift the recorder and then disappear through the hallway door.

_"Dance" with me again? She thinks this is a game... and she thinks she can win. _Bishop broke into a slow smile. She was good. Maybe even dangerously good. But not _that_ good. Keep your enemies closer_... Yeah, we'll dance again-- but with you on_ arrow _point._


	2. Homefires Burning

**Chapter 2: Homefires Burning**

It had been over a fortnight, and his little watcher hadn't returned. He brooded. He hadn't been able to glean much about where she was going-- she had been careful, it seemed, to keep her mouth closed around him. He'd been tempted to track her little entourage. _But I'm not that curious_, Bishop told himself. _And she'll be back. Duncan's saved her rooms, and she left quite a number of things behind... including that hot-headed witch._

Qara wasn't an improvement over the day-to-day at the Flagon. Imperious little snot, she had a comment for everything, and everything was apparently just like her blasted academy, so many rules, oh woe, oh woe. He'd almost had enough. He could see why Livetta had left the brat behind when she'd disappeared.

Then again, Qara's presence wasn't a total loss, either. Duncan daily fumed at the girl, ranting about her debt and the burnt rafters. It had a ring of familiarity. The fun didn't stop there, though. The girl was more than a match in wits for Duncan, and she was a professional when it came to getting under the barkeep's skin. It made, at least, for some entertaining evenings.

Qara wasn't the only change at the Flagon. As Moire's presence in the docks had grown, the inn's crowd had likewise been getting rougher. The old patrons had all buggered off, except for a brave few. None of the new folk had bothered Bishop, though. It was a code of sorts-- people like that left you alone if you knew the way to hold yourself. It was something Qara would have to learn...

"You disgusting pig!" her shriek was painful to the ears even from across the room. "Fire in your loins? I'll show you _real_ fire in your loins, you beer-basted sot!" Bishop watched as Qara's form rippled with the coalescing energies, and smirked after he gauged the distance and the flammabilty of the intervening objects.

"Now, lass!" Duncan interjected.

But it was too late. The fireball ripped free of the sorceress's body, engulfing the drunkard, his table, three chairs, and the bar rag Qara had flung at his feet. Bishop sipped his ale as if it were tea, enjoying that scene.

"Sal! Water! Now!" Duncan shouted, as patrons fled. The buckets were already on hand, as was an alchemically treated fire blanket. In minutes, the blaze was out, and all that was left to do was haul the ruined furniture outside.

Qara had fled the scene in the direction of the kitchen. Her victim had run flaming out the door and turned in the direction of the harbor. "I'll never get him to pay his tab now!" moaned Duncan.

"Now that's a _shame_," Bishop smirked.

"I don't recall asking for _your_ opinion," the half-elf shot back. "I swear, that girl has cost me more business than her labor's worth!"

"Maybe time to reconsider the people you keep around, eh old man?"

"May_be_," Duncan muttered, a sharpness to his voice that told the ranger his jibe had succeeded.

A smile further teased the corners of Bishop's mouth. "I could always go shake him down, and we could call it even?"

Duncan glared by way of reply. He turned away from the ranger, and busied himself with cleaning up the mess. "At least the floor boards didn't catch," he sighed.

The kitchen door opened. "But that drunkard's hair did!" Qara called out, before slamming it again.

_It doesn't matter who's conversation it is, that brat always gets a word in,_ Bishop thought as he finished his tankard, settling back in his chair against the wall. _Slow night_, he guessed, _from here on_. _Unless Qara's got more fireworks for us._ He idly observed Duncan uselessly pushing around the remains of the chairs and table.

The night _was_ slow, but only for an hour longer. The front door swung open, and Bishop had to check his reaction. His watcher was back, along with her rabble. There were two others with them that he didn't recognize-- a tall dark-haired man in plate mail, and a short fidgety gnome. Livetta's hair was bound up under her hat once again, and she slumped as she entered the room. The brim was tilted low, and it shaded her glance. _Hiding, are you?_

"Lass! You're back!" Duncan scooped her up in a hug almost immediately; she didn't return the enthusiasm.

"Uncle Duncan, this is Grobnar Gnomehands, and this, Casavir," she gestured faintly. "If you'll pardon my rudeness, I'm exhausted. I'd like to go straight to my room for a bath and then bed, if that's alright. Would you boil some water for me, please?"

"Certainly, lass. You look as though a horse dragged you through the mud. I'll get Qara to bring it to you."

It almost wasn't there, the little cringe she made. _Almost. Not quite. You're not tired at all, are you little watcher?_ Bishop eyed her gait as she made to leave the common hall. It was perfect for one so worn through, but he glimpsed her eyes roving the room, despite their cover. _Your hat might hide your intentions from someone taller, but I've got a low angle right now, girl_. Those eyes were very much awake.

After she'd left, Bishop decided to educate himself on her little adventure. The crowd she'd brought with her didn't look half as tired as she had appeared to be. That was promising. He drifted over to the bar, asked Sal for another drink, and settled in to listen.


	3. Dance

**Chapter 3: Dance**

From his vantage point at the bar, a few things became readily apparent about the newcomers: they had no idea what to do with themselves after The Hat had disappeared. After greenie'd gone to her room, the tall man she had introduced as Casavir offered to help Duncan with the last bits of charred furnishings. _A paladin or I'm a blind mute._ Neeshka rolled her eyes as the two men began pushing brooms across the floor, and seated herself at the far end of the bar. _Noted_, thought Bishop.

The gnome, unlike the tall human, was quite talkative, and seemed at first oblivious to the way others received him. Khelgar appeared to be humoring him, "Is that so?" or "You don't say?" interspersed with long pulls from a flask. Once emptied, Khelgar cast around for a tankard, but Sal was busy serving Neeshka, and Bishop wasn't about to lend a hand.

The druid kept to herself. _Typical_.

Duncan, after finally finishing with the cleaning, ordered Qara to put a kettle on, and boil some bath water. "Boil it yourself, you lazy drunk!" was heard from the kitchen, followed by some muffled arguments.

All told, his best bet was to look to the tiefling. Elbows on the bar top, she stared down into her drink, using her hands like blinders.

"Paladin got you down?" he crept up next to her.

She startled a little bit, but recovered herself. "He makes my skin itch-- and he has this holier-than-thou aura that bleeds off him like a-- a-- did I say bleeds? No, it explodes off of him like one of Qara's spells!"

"Where'd you pick _him_ up?"

"Ugh. In the mountains up by Old Owl Well. The orcs called him some kind of katal-something. I'd call him a royal pain. I don't know how she plans on getting anything done with him around."

_Paydirt._ "Well, she could always leave him here like she has with Her Highness the Arson. But then, you see what _that_ lead to."

Neeshka snorted. "What'd she do? Get into some tinder twigs or something?"

"Nothing so creative. Though I don't feel bad for the sot who tried to get too friendly with her."

The tiefling brightened. "I guess she's not all that bad, then. So what brings you out of the woodwork, Mr. Corner Lurker?"

"Oh, the usual. Hoping to get a piece of tiefling ass," he lied.

"I liked it better when you were lurking," Neeshka grimaced, turning away, and Bishop, satisfied with the tidbit he'd finally managed to pry from one of Livetta's motley band, sat back down in front of his accustomed wall to further ruminate.

_Getting things done? Moire and her lot for certain then, and likely involved with other affairs less than legal. Girl's got class._ Bishop peered into his ale and frowned. _A paladin, though? I could see the tiefling, and I understand a dwarven meat-shield... the elf's a little odd. But a paladin and a gnomish bard?_ He took a slow sip. _I could take the direct approach... after all, she does think this a game._

He waited a patient half hour. The gnome showed no sign of tiring, but he watched as one by one, Neeshka, Elanee, and finally Casavir took to their rooms. Khelgar continued to nurse a brew, but seemed so intent on ignoring Grobnar that Bishop doubted he'd notice if a lich appeared in the middle of the common room and demanded that they all find it fifty young virgins. With this in mind, Bishop padded over to the kitchen. Looking in, Qara was sulking in the corner, no Duncan was to be found, and there was no evidence of boiling water. He strode in, and picked up the kettle.

"What do _you_ want?" Qara glowered.

"Three half-elven whores and a bottle of wine," Bishop walked over to the pump. "But I don't think I'll find them in here. _You'll_ have to do."

"You're disgusting! But you're asking for it-- you saw what I did to that fat-bellied toad when he tried to--"

Bishop's knife cut her off. In an instant, he was next to her, his blade's point pressed against her throat; more intimidation than anything else. She swallowed. "If I wanted that from you, I'd have let you know it long ago. I'm busy right now, and I don't have time for one of your displays," he hissed in her ear.

She nodded when he withdrew. When his back was turned, she spat, "You're not even supposed to be _in_ here."

"Look who sounds like her academy instructors. Why do _you_ care?" Bishop shot back.

As he filled the kettle, he heard her sniff in that uppity way of hers, but she didn't reply, and she didn't interfere again. When the water was hot, Bishop took a rag, wrapped the handle, and carried it out of the room.

Khelgar had fallen asleep at the bar and Grobnar seemed to be in his own little world, composing or some such. Bishop didn't see Duncan, which was just as well. If the barkeep was off getting drunk, so much the better. The others, having already retired, were nowhere in sight.

Silent as a cat, Bishop stalked down the hallway, porting the over-sized kettle, past closed doors and the sound of snoring, until he came to the hall's end and the suite which Duncan had set aside for his "niece." He paused, formulating how he'd ask what he wanted to know. Then he knocked.

"Qara?" came the reply. "Just set the pot outside the door. I'll get it myself, thanks."

He knocked again. There was the sound of rustling fabric, "Hells," and bare feet moving toward the door. It opened abruptly.

"Qara, I--" the annoyance on her face dissolved. "Bishop?"

"You were expecting Lord Nasher instead?"

"No, I was expecting the Princess of the Sunken Flagon," she didn't miss a beat, despite standing there in only a tunic she had thrown on like an improvised shift before answering his knock.

"Your bath water. The Princess was too put out by your request to deign to comply," he took a step into her room and held out the pot.

Livetta took a step back, and accepted the proffered kettle. Her face had settled into that unreadable blankness that rankled him so. But her body gave her away-- the way she turned abruptly, her brusque motions, and the way she tried to hide the weight of the kettle, to handle the awkward thing gracefully as she poured its contents out into the basin resting on the wash stand.

"The water's cooling, and I'd like to bathe," she met his gaze expectantly.

"I'm sure you would. I've got some questions for _you_ this time."

"Can they wait?" her voice was flat.

"Can your bath?"

She sighed. There was no defeat in it-- it was pure exasperation by the tone. Bishop swaggered into the center of the room, and sat down on the foot of her bed. "And you wanted to know?" she asked, turning away from him.

"You head off to Old Owl Well on some kind of errand-- I'm guessing for Moire-- and you come back with a paladin?"

She dipped her wash cloth into the steaming bowl and wrung it out before answering. "He knew the mountains, and could get us where we needed to go. It was mostly a matter of convenience."

"Convenience, eh? And how do you plan on keeping up your current operations with him around, hmm?" Bishop knew he was taking vague stabs, but if he could goad her into telling him more...

She stripped off her tunic instead, and proceeded to soap her wash cloth. She scrubbed with a no-nonsense vigor, letting the conversation hang. _Head games. She's playing for shock._ He hated to admit it, but even though he'd recognized the tactic for what it was, he was a little put-off.

"Are you done yet?" he snapped, as she rinsed the wash cloth.

"I said I wanted my bath, and I wasn't about to let hot water go to waste. Toss me that towel, would you?" she calmly rejoined.

He all but flung it at her. She turned to catch it, then unashamedly began toweling off.

"Do you put on this kind of show for every man who comes to your door?" he groped for a means to turn the tables.

"Most men know better than to come to my door in the first place, and honestly, if you think that's a show, you must have been deprived for a very long time. Makes me wonder if you've ever _seen_ a naked woman."

"I suppose you'll have to ask the local doxies to find that out," he countered. "But my questions stand-- how much use is that paladin going to be here inside Neverwinter's walls, and do you really think Moire will stand for your new company?"

"Toss me those clothes up at the head of the bed?" She caught them. "Thanks. The paladin I'm sure will have his uses, if I keep him in the dark about half the things I do. And Moire? She's small fish. I wouldn't worry about her too much." Fully dressed now, she pulled a chair from the corner of the room, turned it around so that the seat faced away from him, and she slumped into it, arms crossed over the chair back.

"And who is bigger fish than Moire?" Bishop smirked, baiting her.

"Look around, Bishop. She's a half-rate thug with as much charm and finesse as an ogre. There's always been bigger fish than her." She didn't rise to it. "Is there anything else?"

"Yeah."

"Ask away."

One more stab in the dark. "So this shard you have--that's the real reason for all this running around?" He didn't expect a verbal reply to that one. He watched her body and her face.

She stood up, expression blank, and replied, "I'm calling it a night, Bishop. Out." Her voice was sharp around the edges.

"Good night then, Hat. Don't get too comfy."

"I won't. But then, you shouldn't either."

He smiled wolfishly, feigned a bow, then left, bits of the story finally fitting together. He'd hit on something with that last question. He could ply the gnome or the tiefling for more information in the morning, but for now, he had some of the answers he'd wanted.


	4. Small Blessings

**Chapter 4: Small Blessings**

Bishop didn't sleep much that night and awoke to an east-facing sun at a low angle, leaving the tiny room Duncan had set aside for him so long ago with its single dusty window. He wondered if any of the traveling circus would be up. He didn't want to trumpet his presence, so he walked softly down the hallway, and opened the common room door quietly, hoping to catch some snatches of conversation before he made himself known. What he heard instead surprised him.

Duncan was not a person known for rising early. Bishop had seen this reputation well-earned. It was odd, then, to see the man awake so many hours before noon. Less odd was the sight of his niece at this point in the day, if only because the hours she usually kept seemed to be so erratic. What was most odd was where they were sitting-- on the floor, leaned close, by the nearness of their heads to one another's, behind the bar. They were deep in hushed conversation. It piqued Bishop's curiosity-- but there was a vast expanse of floor from the hallway door over to the bar, and he had a sneaking suspicion that sound or movement would kill their talk quickly. That would mean that anyone else waking up and coming out to the common room for breakfast would end their little tête-a-tête.

He shut the door silently behind him, ducked low himself, and crept as close as he dared. With each step, the words became more distinct.

"...hoped to have this conversation... behind my own _bar, _lass?" _Were they finishing their talk, then?_

"Uncle Duncan, you've got Qara in the kitchen. The others... if we... shutting creaky storage room doors. And then we would really have... who might be listening. At least here we'll know who comes into the common room." A faint slow smile dawned across Bishop's face at this.

"You're probably right, lass," Duncan said after a pause, and Bishop settled himself right up a against the bar itself, each word crystal clear for all its softness. The half-elf continued, "So my brother never told you a thing?"

"He wouldn't talk about my mother at all. And demanding the way I did when I returned from the ruins with the shard didn't help the situation. I didn't expect him to answer then, really. It's just... well, I'd asked in every other way I knew how, already."

"Her death bit _that_ deep, then." The conversation rotated around a pause and a sigh. "I know I said it was Daeghun's business to tell you these things, but I think I was wrong. I don't know where to start."

"Her name was Esmerelle?"

"Aye. Esmerelle. She was fully human, but she could disappear into the wilderness without a trace. I think that's why Daeghun... Lass, she had your eyes, down to the lashes."

"What was she like?"

"She was... she laughed like springtime. But then, I remember her like that because..." Dead silence.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Duncan. I didn't know it was still like this after so long," Livetta whispered softly.

"Lass, it's my fault. I... loved her, and didn't know what to say, how to say it, and it was... well, it was Esmerelle. I don't think she would have done differently. Daeghun had Shayla. I, well, I never did find anyone else. Esmerelle didn't like the way I 'put her on a pedestal.' And she made me feel the fool for it. I had always thought that since she had worked with Daeghun instead of with me, that... she... None of us knew your father. We suspected... oh, we suspected... _I_ suspected... a number of things for a while, until you were born."

Livetta's next question was slow to come. "What had you suspected?"

"Demon blood, strange elves. One of the fey. But it wasn't any of those. It was the _deal_ she made with the fey. _I'm_ certain, though I don't know Daeghun was convinced, but he never saw it as his business. He always thought he knew her better, but..." Duncan's voice trailed off.

"She dealt with dryads and pixies?"

"And darker things. She tread where druids were uncertain and came back knowing things that saved our lives. Many times. But when you deal with the fey, there's always a price."

Another long pause before Duncan's voice continued, "I think that's why she died in the battle at West Harbor when she did. And I think that's why your hair..."

"A fey curse," Livetta offered.

"Or blessing. It's hard to tell, when it comes to the Fair Folk. They don't think like us, and even those people close to the land don't know the Wee Ones well."

"I don't think _this_ hair could have ever been construed as a blessing," was exhaled with a half-hearted laugh.

Bishop crept away from the bar, then, as their conversation continued. He didn't fancy the idea of getting caught. He padded over to the dividing wall, and settled himself at a table to wait for the others to awaken and provide a distraction. It was a longer wait than he'd anticipated. An hour crawled by while uncle and niece murmured back and forth, then finally heavy steps announced a presence in the hallway, and the door opened to Casavir.

"There it is!" Livetta pronounced quickly, suddenly becoming visible as she popped up behind the bar.

Duncan was slower to clamber to his feet. "Where?"

"Here," the Hat produced a ring. "I really thought I had lost it for good. Thanks for helping me look, Uncle Duncan."

"You're... you're welcome?" came the reply.

_Well, your niece is never going to take you touring with her_, Bishop smirked. There was something exceedingly nice about having the real explanation for once-- and going as yet unnoticed on the far side of the wall. At this rate, he wouldn't have to account for the time he entered the room.

One by one, Greenie's companions came out to the common room, to breakfast under the tatty stuffed heads of forest creatures so old that Bishop had always guessed Duncan had just bought them second-hand to fill up the walls. The Hat smiled over her food, no sign of the heavy talk she'd had earlier, and that tickled Bishop's sense of humor. He was still smirking when Greenie rounded up a few of her entourage and left the Flagon for the rest of the day.


End file.
